Meeting Miss Watson
by Baleighalexis14
Summary: Recently I came across some gorgeous FemLock fics that I fell completely in love with. I really wanted to play around with a dynamic of an unchanged Sherlock but with a female Watson. The plot line of this story is being invented as I go along. I’s like to follow along the show’s plotline, adding in scenes, and adding a completely new ending. Its like oneshots in chronological orde
1. The Meeting at St Bart’s

London was grey and bleak as always at this time of year, the early November chill settling heavily over the city, a slight cold drizzling rain had begun to fall, only serving to increase the sense of gloom. Jane Watson limped with a grim determination, leaning heavily on her cane. She'd been stuck with it since she'd been shot in the war and she still hadn't warmed to the idea of using it. She hated relying on the thing for her mobility, hated the fact that her brain refused to accept the fact that she'd been shot in the shoulder, not the bloody leg. In fact today she hated lots of things, that being invalided home had marked the end of the fast paced life and adrenaline she'd become accustomed to, hated the hollow silence that surrounded her since her return to London, and hated the chest crushing depression that had become her constant companion.

She was still lost in her brooding thoughts when a vaguely familiar voice cut through her reverie,

"Jane? Jane Watson is that you?"

She turned to find that the voice belonged to Mike Stanford, an old friend from her Uni days who'd had a massive crush on her in their first year. He'd gained weight in the years since she'd seen him, he looked more like someone's quirky uncle than the nerdy Med student she'd known so long ago, maybe it wasn't only her who'd undergone major changes. Had she not been brooding over negative thoughts she probably would have avoided this conversation altogether. Instead she attempted to dredge up the happy, outgoing girl she'd been before the war had changed her so much.

"Mike? Hello, it's been ages! How've you been?" Jane asked with a smile that she hope didn't look as plastic as it felt.

"Oh same old same old for me. I'm actually heading out for a coffee now. Would you care to join me?"

After an hour of catching up over coffee and complaining of her inability to find a compatible roommate she'd somehow ended up in a cab with Mike on her way to meet his mysterious friend who'd supposedly complained of the same predicament earlier this morning. Jane wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable sharing a flat with a man but at this point she wasn't in the position to be picky, the broom closet her landlord so charitably called a flat simply wasn't working anymore.

After a brief cab ride Mike led her through the winding halls of St Bart's Hospital. Not that she needed a guide, she could find her way through the sterile, stark white halls completely blindfolded. Her medical training here had burned the layout of the place permanently into her mind. They finally made their way to the double doors labeled as "morgue" and she shouldered them open.

As the doors opened she beheld a figure hunched behind a microscope, his face nearly completely obscured from view, the only thing perfectly visible was a mop of dark brown curls.

"Mike can I borrow your phone? I can't get a signal on mine." The man asked in a deep baritone voice, still not glancing up from the microscope.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike enquired.

"I prefer to text" said the strange man.

"Sorry it's in my coat." Explained Mike taking a few shuffling steps forward.

"Uh, here, use mine." Jane said, surprising even herself as she hadn't actually planned on speaking.

"Oh. Thank you" the man said, looking slightly puzzled.

He took the phone from Jane's hand and Mike introduced her as an old friend. Only now did she have a chance to properly look him over. He was ridiculously tall, thin to the point of skinniness. His skin was deathly pale and he had the most angular face of any human she'd ever seen. It wasn't at all displeasing but incredibly striking. The thing that shocked her the most were the blue grey eyes that looked her over with swift assessment. They were eyes that seemed to change color depending on lighting and surroundings. She found it slightly difficult to break his gaze. She'd been about to make a reply when he glanced up at her and asked,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Jane glanced up in bewilderment and looked questioningly at Mike who just smirked.

"I'm sorry what?" Jane inquired.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked with a slight smirk on his face.

"Afghanistan, I'm sorry how did y-"

"Ah Molly, coffee!" He interrupted, as he turned his attention to a little brown haired woman with a timid smile.

"What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." Replied the girl as she glanced down at the floor.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth looks too small now." He quipped, walked away and sipping the coffee she'd brought up.

"How to you feel about the violin?"

It took Jane a moment to realize that he'd been speaking to her.

"I'm sorry what?" She asked, even more confused now than ever.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." He said with a quiet indifference as he took another sip of coffee.

"Y-you told him about me?" Jane stammered to Mike.

"Not a word" he replied, smiling slightly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates" Jane asked, getting slightly annoyed with the man.

"I did, I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't really that difficult of leap." He said while he smartly tied a blue scarf around his long pale neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" She asked.

"I've got my eye on this nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there . Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He announced then started striding for the door.

"Is that it?" She asked angrily.

"Is that what?" He equired with cool indifference.

"We've only just met, and now we're going to go look at a flat." She said disbelievingly.

"Problem?" He asked innocently.

She only laughed and shook her head.

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't just even know your name." She retorted.

He narrowed his eyes at the challenge and disbelief lacing her voice.

"I know you're a military doctor and that you've been recently invalided home from Afghanistan, I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite right too I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?"

He'd stated all of this in a cool monotone voice, speaking so quickly she struggled to keep up as he read details that no one should have known. She stood there shocked and more than a little amazed, unsure of how to proceed with this strange conversation.

" The name is Sherlock Holmes and the adress is " he winked and shut the door behind him.

He's always like that I'm afraid." Mike said from behind Jane making her Jump.

She was left to turn over the bewildering events of the last few minutes in her mind and decide if she'd actually show up at this Baker Street. She was incredibly unsure of the bizarre man who'd known far more than he should have. Although she got the sense that the boring monotony that had become her life was about to be completely ripped apart.


	2. Meeting Miss Watson

Sherlock had spent most of that morning using his riding crop on a corpse provided by Molly. As a man's alibi depended on it he took great care to recreate the bruises as accurately as possible. Every part of his constantly racing mind narrowed on the riding crop in his hand and every meticulous strike that would be the deciding factor in a case that had been his most complicated puzzle in ages. After his minstrations with a riding crop he told Molly to update him of the bruises formed within the next half hour and dashed up to the lab to do further research on the case.

He sat at the microscope fully absorbed in comparing minute samples of vegetation found under the victim's fingernails when he heard the door open. In stepped Mike Stanford and a small blonde woman. She was quite short, really only about 5'6 or so. She had a halo of silvery blonde curls and inquisitive blue grey eyes. He noticed that the woman, maybe a few years older than himself, carried a cane but seemed to forget about it completely as she stood. He posture was ram rod straight and her attention was alert. She glanced around at the room curiously her gaze eventually settling on Sherlock.

His mind immediately set to work deducing the curious woman. Ex doctor judging by the comment she'd made about being familiar with the hospital. Likely an army doctor by the tan lines, posture, and injury. Alcoholic, recently divorced brother by the phone, engravings and scuff marks telling a full story. Looking for a flatmate based on what he'd told Stanford that morning and the fact that the woman was probably in need of permanent lodgings after being invalided home from the war. Psychosomatic limp based on the fact that she forgot to rely on the cane when she was distracted. After deducing all of that from a few quick glances from the corner of his eye he had decided that this could be a promising flatmate indeed. He wasn't sure what he'd planned on saying but the first thing that escaped his lips was

"Mike can I borrow your phone?"

After meeting Miss Jane Watson he felt completely unsure of her final opinion of him. He knew he'd annoyed her slightly with his deductions, people hated when he knew so much about them without saying a word. The thing that shocked the great detective was that there was respect mingling with the shock in her expression when he'd spouted facts that most people would have slapped him for.

People hated him, he'd accepted that in his early teens. As an adult he made that a fundamental part of his identity, "All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage." Mycroft had drilled those facts into his head until they became a mantra. To his great surprise he left the lab that day hoping against all hope that Jane Watson would be one of the few to actually like him. That thought unsettled him far more than he hoped it would. With these thoughts as company, he packed his strange array of belongings to send them to Baker Street, having already deduced that he'd be able to convince her to stay. He had a feeling that if all went according to plan, that this would be an interesting adventure indeed.


	3. 221b Baker Street

Jane stared out of the window of the cab, fingers drumming out a nervous beat on the top of her cane as she anticipated what awaited her that the mysterious address given to her by Sherlock Holmes. When she'd returned to her flat last night she'd ran a few internet searches on the strange man. What she'd found had left her even more confused than before, according to his website he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb (which she still did not believe). The website also included an index of 342 different types of tobacco ash. Though after all of her research she hadn't discovered what a "consulting detective" was. The cab pulled to a stop outside of a cafe called "Speedy's" and she quickly spotted the door to the flat.

She was greeted by Mr. Holmes outside of the flat and then led the way to the front door.

"This is a prime spot, must be expensive." She observed, taking in the place.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal, owes me a favor, a few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." He replied nonchalantly, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jane only gaped at him disbelievingly before stepping up next to the tall man. The the front door swung open to reveal a small cheery looking old lady who beamed up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Hello!" The old woman cried happily.

Sherlock rushed forward and hugged the woman, smiling broadly. It was the most emotion he'd displayed since she'd met him and Jane felt a small smile tugging at her lips as she watched the exchange.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor Jane Watson." He announced, gesturing towards her with a hand.

"Oh hello dear! How lovely to meet you! And so pretty too." The woman crooned, giving Sherlock a sly wink. Sherlock only looked confused at turned his coat collar up against the chilly wind.

Jane only smiled and said

"It's a pleasure to meet you ma'am."

Mrs Hudson ushered them inside and Sherlock dashed up to the first floor landing, pausing to wait for Jane as she struggled upstairs with her cane, her leg ached fiercely on cold days like today. Sherlock opened the door of the flat with a grand gesture, revealing a spacious flat, scattered about with what looked to be the contents of several storage containers from various decades. She noticed a human skull on the mantle, what looked to be a temporary lab on the kitchen table, and two armchairs that looked like they cane from different centuries. The flat itself was actually rather lovely, she decided that it was definitely a place worth considering.

"This could be very nice. Very nice indeed." She commented walking around the flat curiously.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely" he murmured, glancing around the flat approvingly.

"So I went straight on and moved I-"

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out." She interrupted before stopping quickly. Humiliated as she realized what he'd been saying.

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He grumbled, crossing the room and making a halfhearted attempt at cleaning the table before giving up.

He grabbed a series of envelopes and carried them over to the fireplace, promptly grabbing a knife and slamming it deeply into the mantlepiece, effectively pinning the documents in place, the sound casusing Jane to jump.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." The old woman inquired.

Jane expected the man to correct the older woman but he seemed oblivious to what was being implied.

"Of course we'll be needed two bedrooms." Jane snapped more sharply than she'd intended.

The woman just smirked and bustled off into the kitchen and began tidying the counter tops.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." She told him, his sea blue eyes lighting up at the acknowledgment.

"Anything interesting?" He asked, looking slightly unsure.

"Found your website, The Science Of Deduction?" She said questioningly.

"What'd you think?" He asked smiling proudly.

She gave him a disbelieving look and he looked slightly hurt by the doubt dancing in her grey eyes.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb!" She exclaimed as though the perfectly justified her doubt.

"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." He said quickly, looking incredibly smug.

"How!?" She questioned incredulously.

He'd been about to reply when the door swung open, revealing a tall, handsome, silver haired man. Jane wasn't exactly looking for romance at this point but it didn't hurt to appreciate good looks when they were available.

"There's been a fourth, and there's something different about this one isn't there?" Sherlock inquired of the man before he could speak.

"Where?" He asked again before the silver haired man could reply.

"Brixton, Lauriston Garderns. Will you come?" The man inquired.

"First tell me what's different with this one." Sherlock replied.

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." The man explained.

Sherlock asked a few more questions in quick succession, grumbling because someone called Anderson was working forensics and something about needing an assistant.

"So will you come?" The man pleaded again.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind you." He replied quickly.

"Thank you." The man said before turning and leaving the flat, giving Jane a slight smile before shutting the door.

Sherlock waited a few minutes before breaking into some sort of bizarre dance, twirling in circles, and pumping his fist into the air, letting out a triumphant little yell.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He yelled, still dashing around like a madman.

He grabbed his scarf and bolted out of the room, mumbling something about being late getting home and asking Mrs. Hudson for food and telling Jane to have some tea.

Mrs. Hudson bustled about the kitchen, talking fondly of Sherlock and asking Jane about her leg.

"Damn my leg!" She shouted, temper fraying a bit because of the chaos, and the fact that she'd felt slightly left out of this whole police business.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to snap, it's just sometimes this bloody thing.." She trailed off, gesturing to her leg with her cane.

The old woman seemed unfazed, and slightly sympathetic as she went back to her work in the kitchen.

"It's alright dear. I've got a hip." She said slapping her right hip as she walked.

She opened a newspaper and began so skim the article when a voice startled her to attention.

"You're a Doctor, in fact you're an Army Doctor." He observed. Standing right behind the chair Jane had flopped down into.

"Yes." She said simply.

"Any good?" He asked, arching an elegant brow and taking a step closer.

"Very good." She said, standing up and squaring her shoulders.

"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths." He observed, staring at her intensely.

"Hmm yes." She replied, unsure of where this was going.

"Bit of trouble too I'd bet" he continued

"Of course. Yes, enough for a lifetime. Far too much. She murmured. Memories of blood, gunfire, and explosions momentarily clouding her mind.

"Care to see some more?" He asked with a wicked grin.

"Oh God yes." She said, surprising herself greatly with her reply.

That being decided the pair dashed out of the flat, Sherlock dramatically kissing the cheek of his landlady on the way out, the action drawing a small giggle from Jane. They walked to the busy street below, Sherlock practically vibrating with excitement. He hailed the first available cab and they hopped in, high on the beginnings of an adrenaline rush. Neither one knowing that this adventure would change the course of their lives. Jane glanced up and caught the eye of her companion and for the first time in months, a wide grin split her face, mirrored by the strange man across from her.


	4. The Science Of Deduction

They rode along in a companionable silence. Rain streaked down the windows of the cab and Jane drew meaningless shapes in the condensation on the glass. Sherlock kept glancing over at her, obviously wanting her to ask him about the case. This man she'd already decided, loved having an audience. They began a small debate that ended with him quickly and efficiently answering her questions about the location and cause of death. Then she made the fatal mistake of uttering the phrase:

"I'd assumed you were a private detective, but the police don't consult amateurs." She was already aware that he preferred the term "consulting detective", but she wanted him to explain it more fully.

His eyes flared with resentment at the word. He squared his shoulders and fixed her with an icy stare.

"When I first met you I asked Afghanistan or Iraq." He stated.

"Yes, how did you know?" She enquired.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your hair, the way you hold yourself, says military, but you mentioned being familiar with the way the hospital looked prior to being remodeled, that said trained at Bart's, so Army Doctor - that's obvious. Your face is tan but no tan above the wrist. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then, wounded in action, suntan- Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist" Jane retorted.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist" he said as if it were obvious "Then there's your brother."

"Oh?" She asked, interested in how he'd explain that one.

"Your phone, it's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare - You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many, over time. It's been in the same pocket as coins and keys. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving." She supplied quickly.

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero that can't find a place to live, unlikely you have an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on and he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it, people do - sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to keep in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodations but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got a problem with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you didn't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Jane question, unfazed by the fact that he'd insinuated that she'd been in love with her sister in law.

"Shot in the dark, good one though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edges of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; and never see a drunk's without them." He finished with a triumph smirk. "You were right then, the police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock bit his lip, looking nervously as he waited for her to respond

"That... was amazing!" She cried in astonishment.

He looked so shocked by the praise that he didn't even reply for a few moments.

"Do you really think so?" He asked shyly.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." She replied, still a little awestruck by the explanation.

"That's not what people normally say." He said.

"What do people normally say?" She asked.

"Piss off" he said.

He glanced at Jane and the two bursted into laughter. They settled back into a brief comfortable silence after that.

"Did I get anything wrong?" He asked, looking over at her again.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Really? I didn't expect to get everything righ-"

"And Harry's short for Harriet." Jane cut in quickly.

He started violently at that tidbit of information.

"Sister! Harry's your sister!" He growled through gritted teeth.

"Careful Mr. Holmes, someone might take that for arrogance, even the great Sherlock Holmes misses thing every now and again apparently." She teased.

His sharp eyes narrowed once more at the challenge. She felt him assessing her and braced herself for another round of deductions.

"Well Miss Watson, I didn't miss the thin band of pale skin along your left ring finger, I'd say engaged within the last year. The skin is beginning to match the shade of the rest of the finger though, I'm assuming he left you around six months or so ago, possibly because of you putting your job in front of him, or your refusal to settle down into the role of a traditional housewife."

The air seemed knocked out of her lungs at that, images rushing back as she remembered him, walking hand and hand through London, remembered the sound of the masked man's voice as he pointed the gun at his chest. She remembered her wonderful Henry handing over his watch and wallet, begging only that the man didn't touch Jane. She remembered the way he'd reacted when the attacker had pushed her up against the brick wall, hiking her skirt up at the thigh. She thought of the way Henry had lunged for the man, how the attacker turned before he could grab him and put a bullet though his chest.

She'd sank to her knees and cradled the love of her life in her lap as he bled to death in a London alley. She could still feel his blood sticking to her hair and skin, could still hear his whispered "I love you" as he took his last breath. She hated herself everyday for not being able to save him, it made getting shot feel small in comparison.

"Jane?— Jane!!!" Sherlock's voiced called and the feeling of his hands gently shaking her shoulders finally broke her out of the flashback that gripped her.

"Breathe, Jane!" He demanded. Soothing a hand down her arm as she shook violently.

"He— he didn't leave me, not willingly at least. He was shot, just a few weeks after I made it home, protecting me from a robber who tried to assault me." She whispered.

The guilt slammed into him like a ton of bricks as he realized what he'd done. He'd been so desperate to show off that he hadn't considered the effects his words might have, let alone the fact that he'd be so tragically wrong.

"I'- I'm sorry. Please forgive me." He stammered. "Had I known, I never would have said anything"

The guilt in his eyes told her that he was telling the truth. She wasn't angry with him, he hadn't known what happened to Henry. The mention of it had sparked a violent flashback, PTSD had that effect on people, especially broken army doctors. She took a shaky breath and squared her shoulders.

"I know, I'm sorry I still have a hard time thinking about it. I loved him more than I've ever loved anyone in my life, but I'm learning to cope. He was wonderful, he'd want me to be strong." She said. Her voice wavering slightly as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, one glance at him told her that the guilt was still plaguing him. After composing herself she considered the man across from her. A study in contrasts, so cold and sterile one moment, then guilt ridden and sympathetic the next. He was certainly a puzzle. Her reverie was cut short when the cab pulled to a stop. He opened the door and held out a hand to help her out and she flashed him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

The pair then strode off towards the flashing police lights and crisscrossed cation tape that decorated the street. The lights caused strange reflections in the glittering rain, giving the entire scene a sense of urgency and movement. Sherlock had settled into his mask of cold indifference, not because of her, but because he was already turning every bit of that spectacular brain to the details of the case before them.


	5. Dinner? Starving

The case happened in a whirlwind of action. Sherlock spouted off deductions at an alarming speed, she'd been abducted by a man who turned out to be Sherlock's brother, they ran across London in pursuit of a cab, there was a particularly mortifying coverversation that involved Sherlock believing her to have a romantic interest in him, and she'd shot the man responsible for four separate murders and what surely would have been a fifth, had she not stepped in to stop Sherlock from taking that bloody pill.

That series of events and many more led to her to where she was now. Standing on the other side of police tape, Sherlock striding towards her and tossing an orange blanket into the open window of a police car. Within minutes he'd complimented her on her impeccable aim, she'd been a fool to think he wouldn't figure it out. She was shocked to find him looking more impressed than shocked by her just having killed a man.

"Are you alright?" He asked eyeing her skeptically.

The thing that shocked her was that she was alright, in fact she was better than alright, she felt alert and focused. Even the tremor in her had had disappeared completely. She felt something akin to euphoria still running through her veins, she felt awake after months of wading through fog. She still marveled the fact that she'd abandoned the cane, the case had snagged her attention so thoroughly that she'd forgotten to need it, therefore not needing it at all.

The look on Sherlock's face when Angelo had knocked on the door to return it was pure one of pure triumph, she'd been tempted to slap the smirk off of his lips, but she settled on launching herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck, he'd frozen at the contact but returned her embrace happily. She'd thought of that as she aimed her gun at the cabbie, of the compassion she'd already noted in the man who so mistakenly identified himself as a sociopath. She'd be dammed if she'd let someone else die when she had the power to save them, so she took a steadying breath and pulled the trigger, muscle memory taking over as the recoil rocked her back a bit.

Of course she felt the weight of taking a life, as a soldier it was something she'd long ago accepted. The cabbie's would be another face that would haunt her nightmares, but she did not regret killing him, it was a matter of safety. She'd learned early into her military career to identify the source of danger, eliminate it, and cause as few casualties as possible, that was how you kept people safe.

"Yes of course I'm alright." She said with calm conviction.

"Well you have just killed a man." He said without any judgement, just a simple observation.

"Yes, but he wasn't a very nice man." She said smirking a bit. He barked a laugh and they strode off.

"Dinner?" He asked.

"Starving." She replied eagerly.

They left the flashing lights of the crime scene behind them and made their way to a run down, all night Chinese restaurant. The rain had finally relented, leaving a pleasant chill in its wake, her companion once again had his collar turned up dramatically against the cold. They ordered food, took a seat at a booth near the front window, and Sherlock picked at his sesame chicken, only occasionally taking small bites and watching Jane as she devoured her lo mein noodles. They made idle conversation as they ate, discussing the case and she peppered him with questions about his past and why he'd discovered an interest in crime to begin with. He'd been short on answers about his life in the last few years, preferring to talk of early childhood instead.

"It wasn't always detective work that interested me, when I was a child I wanted to become a pirate." He admitted shyly. Jane laughed in shock and delight.

"You know I can imagine you as a pirate, the hat would certainly suit you." She said with a bemused expression. He simply sighed, looking slightly amused dispite his attempts at appearing annoyed.

"Would you like your foutune cookie Miss Watson?" He asked, attempting to steer the conversation into less embarrassing waters.

"Aye aye, Captian Holmes." She said with a roguish wink. A light pink blush stained his cheeks and she had to bite back a laugh.

"You know I can nearly always predict the fortunes in these things." He said conversationally. They passed the next 15 minutes with him trying and failing to correctly guess a fortune.

"Ok, ok it's my turn to guess one of yours." Jane said blinking away tears from laughing so hard at his frustration at getting them wrong. He made a noncommittal noise that she took as permission.

"Hmm lets see, it will say; You will soon meet a faithful companion and your adventures will change the course of your life forever." She announced, not really knowing where the words were coming from but letting them free anyway. He looked startled at her words then leaned forward on his elbows.

"Well my Dear Watson, I don't need a fortune cookie to tell me that. I do believe that it's happened already." He practically purred, it was her turn to blush as he pinned her with that intense gaze. So she lifted her glass and toasted;

"To the puzzles we've solved, and to the adventures we'll have."

He clinked his glass against hers with a soft smile and they both drank deeply. She knew deep down that killing that man to save this strange creature hadn't been a mistake, she had a strange feeling that she'd do far more for his sake and somehow she knew he'd do the same for her. So as she sat in a dimly lit restaurant in central London, she felt some fractured part of her heart beginning to mend and smiled for the first time in months, at the thought of the future awaiting her.


	6. The Detective’s Thoughts on Nightclubs

In the days since they'd wrapped up the pink lady case life had become infinitely busier in their strange little flat. Jane had chosen to write a blog about her life at Iife at Baker Street, more importantly, about the cases that kept them so busy. The blog had become a major success, going viral shortly after their first case. Now everyone knew of the great detective and his brilliant powers of deduction. There had been dozens of cases since that first one, each gaining more renown for the detective and his partner.

The biggest changes however, came that faithful day in the pool after meeting the infamous Moriarty. The case had been brutal and Jane could see the strain it was having on her friend. Then the look on his face when she'd stepped out wrapped in explosives had nearly broken her heart. She'd been fully prepared to die, but they were saved by a stroke of luck. He'd clumsily ripped the explosives from her body and tossed them into the pool. After reassuring himself that the snipers were truly called off he grabbed Jane by the arm and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. Her arms wrapped around his waist instinctively and she felt the unbreakable detective trembling violently in her arms. He roughly stroked her hair as if to reassure himself that she was still safe and alive.

"Shh-shhhh, Sherlock it's okay, I'm fine. We made it." She tried assure him but he was still gripping her tightly. He grabbed her jacket and wrenched it off of her torso, examining for injuries and finding none.

"Look at you, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People will talk you know." She chided. Her humor broke through whatever panic was still gripping the man. She gave him a cheeky smile as he pulled away from her.

"People do little else." He said with a breathless chuckle. Finally regaining a bit of composure.

It had been weeks since that day and the dynamic between the two of them had changed slightly. They'd grown nearly inseparable over the months since she'd moved in, but only as friends and flatmates. He remained stubbornly married to his work and she wasn't quite ready to move on from her beloved Henry just yet.

Even so, Sherlock became far more protective of the woman he was fortunate enough to call friend. He started finding ridiculous excuses to keep her from coming out on dangerous cases, and failing of course, she was never one to shy from danger. He even began going with her to do the shopping, that should have been the first clue that he still wasn't over the events at the pool.

Things finally boiled over when Detective Inspector Lestrade had given them a new case, a man was prowling local nightclubs, drugging and abducting young women, then taking them back to some secret hideout to "play" with them until he grew bored. Then he'd promptly murder the girls and throw their bodies into the Thames river. He'd killed nine young women so far and the authorities were desperate to stop him.

Sherlock instantly went to work, mapping out the nightclubs he'd most likely target next. He narrowed it down to one only a few blocks away. Jane glanced at her phone and nocticing that it was Saturday, the day every one of the girls had disappeared on.

"So we'll be going undercover then? To the nightclub I mean. We could go to that one, then send Greg and Sally to the other one on the other side of town, just as a precaution." Jane said after he was quiet for a while.

"Oh no. I'll be going to the nightclub, I'll take one of the female officers from Scotland Yard with me as backup. You said you had mounds of paperwork to do anyway. Stay here and take care of that, this case won't be interesting anyway." He retorted quickly. Jane snorted at the poor lie.

"Oh no you don't Sherlock Holmes. You've been doing this since the pool and I'm tired of it. You know that I'm not made of glass, I don't need you to act like a mother hen any time there's danger. If those women are in danger then it's my duty to help them in any way I can. Besides, it's not like you've ever worried about me before." She said sharply. That of course, was a lie, but Jane had no way of knowing that. He'd worried about her from the first case, he just didn't feel the terror of possibly losing her until she'd been standing in the pool with a red dot aimed at the explosives on her chest.

"Please Jane? Just stay." He begged.

"Sherlock you know that I'm not going to do that." She said simply.

He growled in reply but relented. She gently slapped his cheek as she passed, smiling at the man who had his entire body curled into a ball in an armchair. He glanced up at her for a moment before returning to his sulking, reasoning with himself that with her there he could at least keep an eye on her, he was beginning to wonder if leaving her here alone was safe while Moriarty still wandered freely.

Jane made her way into her room and threw open her closet door. It had been ages since she'd had the occasion to wear anything other than jeans and a jumper. After sorting through the contents of her closet she's tried on nearly everything she owned when she was beginning to give up on her quest. After shoving a series of hangers aside in frustration something caught her eye, a glittering metallic gold and black dress with long tight sleeves. She'd worn the dress clubbing back in her Uni days, she had forgotten that she owned it until now.

She pulled the dress on and stood in front of the floor length mirror. Jane was very delicately built but her muscles were well toned. The dress hit a little higher than mid thigh and it was almost scandalously tight, it was saved from being a bit too scandalous by the high neckline, it was probably her favorite feature of the dress. She knew she was probably a bit old for a dress like this but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't still look amazing on her. She tugged on a pair of black, dangerously tall, strappy, stilettos and strode around the room, giving herself a chance to adjust to the height of the shoes. Then she set to work on her hair and makeup, curling the strands of her pale blonde hair and applying thick eyeliner and dark red lipstick. She was a force of nature when she'd finished, her grey blue eyes nearly glowing with the help of the cosmetics, she grinned dangerously as she admired herself in the mirror.

She walked down the hall to the sitting room where Sherlock sat playing a calm melody on his violin, he'd changed into a black close cut suit and wore that sinful purple shirt underneath. When he heard her heels clicking across the floor he glanced up with heavy lidded eyes. They landed on her and widened into a look of utter shock, his surprise caused the bow to connect roughly with the strings, causing a noise so loud and unpleasant that Jane covered her ears and winced.

"You're not wearing that!" He cried.

"And why the hell not?" She retorted, still feeling a little smug about his response to seeing her.

"Be-Because there's a serial rapist on the loose and there won't be a man in the club not focused on you if you look like that!" He shouted and gestured wildly with his hand at her exposed legs.

"I'll be fine Sherlock, besides, I haven't danced in a club in ages." She smiled, then gave him a stern look that said she'd simply disregard any arguments he could make. With a sigh of intense resignation he offered her his arm and they made their way downstairs.


End file.
